Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

Q: Who made you?

A: God made me.

Q: Why did God make you?

A: To represent cold-blooded murderers and various other swine.

Mary gritted her teeth. She grabbed a legal pad, put her head down, and started taking notes. As long as she had this job, she was going to do it and do it right. It was the only way to cope with defending Connolly, and she suspected it was the only way most criminal defense lawyers defended their clients.

Without looking up.

Judy lurked inside the door of the boxing gym, reacquainting herself with the place. The sparring match staged earlier in the day was gone, and a white man pounded the heavy bag in the corner. Two black men worked the speedbags, their muscled arms pumping in deft circular motions. A janitor swept up with a long wooden pushbroom, an unlit cigarette plugged into the side of his mouth. Nobody noticed Judy, or if they did, they didn’t bother her.

She watched the boxer on the heavy bag that hung from the ceiling like a dead body. Womp, womp, womp, went the sound of leather on thick canvas, reverberating in the gym. The fighter’s body swiveled from side to side with each jab. The rhythm reminded Judy of the natural swing of cross-country skiing and the solitude of the boxer was like rock climbing. Odd to find remnants of her two favorite sports in a filthy gym, but Judy had the capacity to romanticize anything. Even really smelly things.

Behind her, in the corner, was a scene she hadn’t seen from the door. A short older man in gray sweats was demonstrating a classic boxing stance in front of a lineup of little kids in low-slung boxers. His skin was the color of chestnuts and his eyes a rich, resonant brown, large and lively in a barely lined face. Hair worn natural covered his neatly shaped head, with patches of gray at the temples, and he smiled easily, almost like a kid himself. “Think you can do it? Give it a try!” the man shouted to the group, and Judy walked over to watch.

The kids stepped forward and imitated the stance, their flat torsos and lanky arms ending in puffy red boxing gloves, crisscrossed with duct tape.

“Way to go, boys! That was great!” the man called out, and the kids’ chests puffed visibly. “Now, lefts up!” The kids cocked their left fists protectively. “Look like you mean it!” the man shouted. He wiped his brow and grinned at Judy. “They look real good, don’t they? They only had two lessons, these boys.”

“They look awesome!” Judy said, loud so the kids could hear.

The man returned his attention to the kids. “Now let’s see a few jabs, boys.” The kids started swinging, imitating moves from TV. “Way to be, way to be!” he called to them as they swung.

“You teach boxing, I gather,” Judy called out.

“Sure. Boxin’ gives kids somethin’ to do, teaches ’ em self-esteem. I make ’em do a good deed, too, every day.” The man’s forehead wrinkled as two kids started shoving each other. “Hey, cut that out, you two. Troy! Vondel! Okay, we’re done for the night. Hit the showers!” The kids fell out of line and scampered across the worn Astroturf for the locker room. “Don’t leave the towels on the floor! Put ’em in the hamper!” he shouted after them.

“I don’t think they heard you,” Judy said, smiling.

“They heard, but they don’t listen.” The man wiped his brow on the sleeve of his sweats and extended a large hand. “I’m Roy Gaines. Everybody call me Mr. Gaines, don’t ask why. Not that I won’t tell you, jus’ I don’t remember. Jus’ started that way and there’s no stoppin’ it. So now Mr. Gaines it is.”

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Gaines. I’m Judy Forty,” Judy said, shaking his hand. It was a false name, but she was undercover. People didn’t line up to help lawyers, and she wanted to keep her connection to the Della Porta case under wraps. If she could avoid seeing Star for the next few days, she could pull it off. “You give lessons to adults, too?”

“Ha! I trained half the fighters outta this gym.”

“So you must know a lot about boxing.”

“Been boxin’ since I was a kid. Started out wrasslin’ in the schoolyard, down Georgia. Didn’t have the height nor the reach to be no professional, though. Been givin’ lessons for a long time. Ask the manager of the place, Dayvon Allen, he here in the daytime. Ask him. Ask anybody. Everybody know Mr. Gaines.”

Judy nodded. It sounded perfect. “I’d like to take boxing lessons from you.”

“Boxin’ lessons? Sure.” Mr. Gaines looked Judy up and down, appraising her. “You could do it, girl. Got the build for it. Tall, strong. Long arms. Lotsa women boxin’ now.”

“Really?”

“Christy Martin, the coal miner’s daughter? White girl, wears pink shorts, built like a truck. On a card with De La Hoya one time. Helluva boxer. Holds her own, Christy does, and there’s that Dutch girl, the real pretty one. What’s her name?” Mr. Gaines frowned in thought, then snapped his fingers, an unexpectedly loud sound. “Lucia Rijker! You see her?”

“No.”

“Well, you should.” Mr. Gaines frowned. “You interested in boxin’, you oughta watch it. Watch it all you can. Watch the men, watch the women, you can always learn somethin’. S’like anythin’ else, you gotta study it. Practice. Train. Work. Can’t be traipsin’ in here lookin’ for no diet program.”

“How much are lessons?”

“Twenty-five bucks a half hour. Gotta sign me a form, if you serious.”

“I am.” Judy felt dismayed. A half hour? She couldn’t learn much about the gym in half an hour. “Can I take an hour lesson?”

“A half hour be more than enough.” Mr. Gaines chuckled, revealing a cracked front tooth that looked like a piece of white bread with a bite taken out of it. “Believe me. Puh-lenty. You got time on your hands, you train. In between lessons, you train. Hear me? Train. Run. Lift. Heavy bag. Reflex bag. I give you a schedule. All my students got a schedule.”

“How about three lessons a week?”

“Hoo-ee, you fast. Most people, they do one a week. What the hurry?”

Judy paused. “I already know the basics. My dad boxed. He was a cop.”

“A cop, huh?” Mr. Gaines repeated, and Judy nodded, though she was making it up as she went along. Her father was a Stanford professor who would have abhorred boxing if he’d ever deigned to form an opinion about it.

“I think there’s something about cops and boxing, don’t you?” Judy asked, digging for information. “They seem attracted to it. Isn’t there a detective who manages a boxer here?”

“Sure. Star Harald. Great boxer, about to turn pro. You oughta see that fight, at the Blue. Too late to get tickets, gonna be on the USA channel and all.”

“Do you know him, this detective?”

“He’s dead now.” Mr. Gaines clucked. “Good manager. Knew the sport. He got shot. Murdered.”

“Shot? That’s awful. Did they catch who did it?”

“Sure did. His girl. She’s went to jail for it, I think.”

“His girl?” Judy echoed, as if she hadn’t known. “Did you know her?”

“Nah. Not much. She was mean, you know? Never said nothin’ to me, hung with the wives and girlfriends. Figured she was the one who done it, when I heard about it.”

“Why? What made you think that?”

“Some people, they jus’ bad.” Mr. Gaines shook his head. “Wrong numbers, my mama use to call ’em. Now that girl, she was jus’ a wrong number.”

Judy worried. Everywhere she turned was a completely credible witness who thought Connolly was guilty, and Bennie wouldn’t hear any of it. Rather, as Mr. Gaines would say, Bennie heard but she didn’t listen.

“Now, Miss Judy, you want to talk lessons or not? You sign me the form, we can start nex’ week.”